Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Macduff wakes up in a tent that isn't his own, head full of memories that blur at the edges, warm skin and hands and mouths in the middle of the night, he tries to think nothing of it, he really does. He wasn’t inebriated, but he almost wishes he had been, because then maybe the ghostly feeling of Malcolm’s hands brushing over his hips wouldn’t still linger.

Failing that, he questions. It's what he does best. He doesn't move for some time, wondering when and why Malcolm left him there. Has he been alone for hours, asleep and empty? Or did Malcolm leave just moments before Macduff woke up with sheets pooled around him and a strange taste in his mouth?

Outside, he hears others start to rise and ready their horses. Slowly, they seem to come together and talk in hushed, serious tones. Macduff hears his own name more than once. He shuts his eyes and pretends he can't hear the rest of it. In a way, he's glad Malcolm is elsewhere - for he certainly isn't talking with everyone else, otherwise they wouldn't be talking about him - because Macduff wouldn't want him to know that his subjects are speculating about -

About what, exactly? How much could they possibly know? 'Tis not cruel, he thinks, but 'tis invasive, certainly. And it is; in every way, he’s been compromised and seen. Macduff can feel another one of the walls that he built around himself crumble as he lies there, thinking and listening. He'd worked so hard to protect himself and his thoughts, and now it's all coming undone and it's all Malcolm's doing.

Malcolm knows exactly how to take a man apart, in every sense of the word. It should be more surprising than it is.

Eventually, Macduff moves. He can't stay there forever. Men have gone mad with their own thoughts, and thoughts like these - well. They're maddening, certainly. In some sad way, Macduff is hoping Malcolm will come back and explain everything, and that will fix it. Macduff isn't sure what 'it' is, but he knows that something is out of place.

He dresses in the clothes from the day before, which had been pulled off last night and left on the ground. By the time he's close to ready, the group is much smaller - just Menteith and Angus, by the sound of it. The two of them are still talking, but about something other than him. They greet him warmly and pretend not to have any interest in Macduff's whereabouts last night. Good. In turn, he slips into their conversation easily, like a kingfisher cleanly breaking the surface of a lake.

Some time later, he registers Malcolm return and go into his own tent, only to come back out again just as quickly. His hair is wet. It sticks to the back of his neck and curls at his temples. A memory of Macduff pulling his fingers through Malcolm's hair jumps to mind. He so badly wants to touch it now, feel damp curls under his hands and Malcolm's breath on his wrist. Macduff looks away.

Malcolm doesn't try to talk to Macduff and in return Macduff makes no attempt at conversation with Malcolm. If anyone notices this, they don't mention it within earshot.

-

It didn't come out of nowhere, he thinks later. He's been back at Fife for a few days now, and the castle stretches out, vast and empty as ever. Far too often he hears voices at the end of hallways only to find there's nothing there. It used to be much worse - he'd hear faint echoes of pained cries in the hall and start, having to stop himself from running to the source. Now, it's only the occasional whisper. An empty castle with only cold air inside, nothing more.

The silence leaves him too much space to think. It's suffocating in a way, because Macduff was never able to stand being alone with his thoughts. And tonight, these thoughts turn to Malcolm, as they often have of late.

And therein lies the problem. He can't stop thinking about a man who is seemingly refusing to talk to him.

There's a very good chance he's wrong, that Malcolm is just busy. But then why won't he look at Macduff? Why does he leave the room if they're alone? After the battle, everyone was thanked and congratulated. Everyone save Macduff, who only received a few words before Malcolm moved on. It made his chest seize up and Macduff shrank under everyone's gaze. There were unasked questions in all eyes. Questions that Macduff didn't, and still doesn't have the answer to.

Unable to sleep, he goes over every recent interaction with his king. He picks them apart, tries to decipher meaning in the smallest of touches, the most unassuming of words, the most fleeting glances. There's a way Malcolm looks at him that Macduff can't describe. It's sad and hopeful at the same time. It strikes him as odd, but then perhaps he's been looking at Malcolm in the same way lately. As if he's the only thing that matters. The sun fills up your vision and blinds you, no matter how quickly you look away.

And when it's gone, he thinks, you miss it more than you thought possible. He laughs despite himself - Macduff has never been one for metaphors. Look what he's become. Malcolm's doing, again.

That's something that draws Macduff to him. His words. He first noticed, properly noticed, in England, all those years ago. The way Malcolm managed to pull the untruths around him, manipulated rhetoric as easily as allowing water to flow, lied with all the ease of experience but the discomfort of novelty. It would have been impressive under any other circumstances.

"Why did you do it?" Macduff had asked a while later, once everything had slowed and come close to stopping. They were standing on top of the castle at Dunsinane, watching people move about like birds below them, and the conversation had turned to this.

Malcolm had considered the question. That was another thing Macduff noticed; Malcolm always thought about his answer. Perhaps he was being careful, or perhaps he was trying to give a fulfilling answer. Either way, there was always a pause.

In the pause, Malcolm had turned away slightly. Macduff found himself studying his profile, memorising the way the sun spread it's fingers through his king's hair and cradled his cheek with a golden hand. Macduff had suddenly felt breathless and euphoric, but had blamed it on the breeze at the time. Now, looking back, he knows with near certainty it was something else, something he still struggles to name.

"I had to be sure," said Malcolm eventually. Neither of them needed further elaboration, and they had stood in silence until the time came for Malcolm to go inside, leaving Macduff alone with a strange new feeling.

As he is now.

Not new, he tells himself, and not unwelcome, just one he never thought he'd see again.

He falls asleep with the sound of Malcolm's voice in his head, whispering sweet words that signify nothing.

-

Briefly, Macduff considers talking to someone about it. There's Ross and Angus, off course, but he's felt distant from them ever since she died. She was a means of keeping them close - her husband and her cousin and whoever Angus was in that. It worked out well for her. It isn't working out well for Macduff now.

Caithness would just laugh at him. Menteith would do the same. Macduff doesn't ever really talk to Lennox, so that's not an option either.

It's frustrating, because the person he would talk to, the person he's been talking to about things like this, is Malcolm. And Malcolm won't talk to him, so Macduff is stuck.

Macduff ignores the voice in his head that says he's not exactly trying to talk to Malcolm either.

-

"Do you mind if I stay here tonight?"

He was at Dunsinane yet again. It was almost laughable how many excuses Macduff made to talk to Malcolm about everything and nothing. It was a wonder the king hadn't gotten sick of him yet.

"Of course," Malcolm said, laughing slightly. "I wouldn't make you go out in the rain, would I?"

They both stopped and listened to the storm raging outside. It hammered on the walls like a madman, desperate and fervent.

"No. I suppose you wouldn't."

Malcolm smiled. His face was flushed - they were both thoroughly drunk - and there was a glow around him. When his hands moved to illustrate his next point, they were golden in the firelight. Macduff felt like he could watch him talk forever.

" - and...Macduff? Are you listening?"

Macduff grinned and leaned forward into the invisible circle around Malcolm. His voice when he spoke came out much more affectionate than he had intended. "Of course, my lord."

Malcolm drew back slightly. "Good." He continued to talk, and Macduff continued to mentally draw back.

Outside, the storm howled and sobbed and screamed confusion into the trees.

-

"So, if I understand correctly," says Caithness, taking up too much space at the table. "You've realised you love him, and your instinct is to avoid him now?"

"No, it's not - it's not like that." Macduff scrambles for the words. "Don't call it love." Internally he makes a face, because of all the things he could say in response to that, he opts for denial of what is true? It's pathetic, really, and from the look on her face, Caithness is only moments away from telling him this.

"If it's not love, what is it? Look at you." she gestures to his unkempt hair and shaking hands. The last time he slept was days ago. It shows. "People don't look like this unless they're dying, or in love and hopeless about it."

Very, very quietly, Macduff says "I don't know what to do."

And it's true. He feels like breaking down, if he's being honest. It's so lonely - Malcolm was the only person Macduff had felt truly seen by since she died, and though that terrified him, it was worse losing that and feeling so completely and achingly alone.

Caithness sees the look on his face and softens. "Talk to him."

"I can't."

"Why not? What's stopping you?"

"He hasn't talked to me. I don't think he wants to at this point, otherwise-"

"-otherwise what? He would have? Look at yourself! You want to talk to him, and yet you don't! How can you be sure he's not in the same position?"

"I..."

Caithness smirks. "Deep down, you know I'm right."

Macduff isn't sure she's right about Malcolm, but she's correct in her implication that Macduff will drive himself to distraction if he doesn't do something. He's halfway there already.

"Fine. I concede. You win."

She smiles in a way that is so self-satisfied and so unlike the panting grin after a battle that Macduff is used to seeing. It catches him off guard. Were it not coming from Caithness, he'd say it was almost benevolent.

"I'll talk to him."

-

Because Malcolm can't allow Macduff to avoid Dunsinane forever, eventually there will be a meeting of some kind. An eventual convergence of the earls to discuss affairs and such. It is, if nothing else, a chance to speak to Malcolm.

Macduff has a plan in his head. The general idea is that he will corner Malcolm after everyone else has left and, through mature discussion, work out where they stand in relation to one another and what transpired between them.

The only problem is Malcolm himself.

Upon arrival, Macduff finds all words deserting him like birds fleeing the cold air in winter. It's one thing to live for weeks with the memory of a man, and quite another to see him standing before you, simultaneously different and completely unchanged. It's shocking how real Malcolm looks in the wet grey light falling through the castle windows.

Malcolm's eyes linger for a moment too long on Macduff. He shrinks under their gaze and doesn't return it. How can he, when these eyes have haunted his dreams?

In short, it seems like his plan to speak about how he feels - which was doomed from the start, now that he thinks about it - is clearly not going to work. He can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone translate those into words.

He says nothing during the meeting.

It happens around him. Macduff is centred in the middle of it, but his mind is far, far away. Nervousness grips him by the shoulders so hard that he has to dig his fingers into his thighs to stop them from shaking.

A few times he is addressed, and each time Caithness answers for him, to the satisfaction of the whole group save one member.

Macduff can feel it. Malcolm hasn't taken his eyes off of him since the moment he entered the room, Macduff is sure of it. More than once - more than he should, really - he glances up at Malcolm and holds his gaze for half a second. They both know something has to change, and Macduff is sure that Malcolm doesn't want to be the one to begin the change, so it falls to him. It always does. Normally he enjoys the feeling of controlling both haste and necessity; god knows he controls nothing else in his life. But sitting there, buzzing with nerves and a recently awoken feeling of nausea, he's not sure he can do it.

It would be easier to say nothing, and grow apart.

But not so deep down, Macduff knows that the last thing either of them want is for that to happen.

As everyone else is filing out of the room, Macduff grabs Malcolm's hand. The king's fingers curl softly into his palm. Based on how quickly Malcolm pulls his hand away, the movement was involuntary.

"Yes?" It's short. Curt. Dismissive. Macduff would be lying if he said that didn't upset him.

"Can I talk with you?"

Malcolm all but scowls. "Wouldn't that be something different?"

A few of the servants turn to watch the scene unfold. Macduff's pulse quickens. The last thing he wants is for this to become a spectacle.

"Alone," he hisses.

Malcolm sighs and does something complicated with his hand, and all the servants leave the room. "Happy now?"

"I miss you," Macduff blurts out, and immediately kicks himself because he sounded so desperate and that wasn't how he envisioned this going at all.

"Oh?" Malcolm's face softens, but only slightly, and only for a moment. “Alright,” he says, slowly. “Why do I feel like there’s more to it than that?”

Macduff tries and fails to get air into his lungs. “I think we should talk about what happened.”

“Okay. Can I go first?”

Macduff nods.

“Why did you leave?”

The way he asks it feels like being hit in the stomach. Macduff isn’t entirely sure what he’s meant to say. Normally he would think about it, but that’s refusing to happen today, so he says: “You left first.”

To which Malcolm replies: “I was going to come back.”

“That would have been nice to know.”

“You couldn’t have waited?”

“Do you know how long you were gone? Because I had to lie there by myself and listen to everyone talking about us for longer than I would have liked.”

There’s a change in Malcolm’s face. It would have been missed by anyone else, but Macduff knows Malcolm, so he places it immediately.

It looks like betrayal.

“Everyone?” he asks, and Macduff realises what he said. He hadn’t meant to tell Malcolm that, ever, and now he has, and it’s just as bad as he feared it would be. “Everyone knows?”

Yes, he thinks, but doesn’t say it, because how could he?

Malcolm looks like he’s evaluating something silently. Eventually, he looks up and at Macduff. His eyes have gone cold again. “We’re done talking about this.”

“No.” The sound comes from the back of his throat, soft and raw at the same time. Macduff has a feeling that the way he says that sounds a lot more pleading than he planned on sounding. Which is to say, very, when he hadn’t wanted to sound pleading at all. “I can’t go on like this. I can’t stand not talking to you, so we have to, now, otherwise we’ll never move past it and the loneliness will drive me insane.”

"Then why didn't you come before? Why only now?” Malcolm moves closer and looks at Macduff in a way that makes his skin go cold. “You think you’re lonely? You're the one who's being distant with no explanation."

"I'm being distant? It's my fault? This is the first time we've talked in over a month and you're the one who clearly doesn't want to be here. You won't even look me in the eye! And it's my fault, for some reason?"

Malcolm has taken a step back. Macduff realises that he was much louder than he intended to be. Good. Let them hear.

"...Why did you leave?" Malcolm finally asks. Any previous hardness in his eyes has vanished now. His face is so open and Macduff can tell from the way his brows are slightly furrowed and the way he's biting his lip slightly and the way his hands are trying not to twist together that Malcolm feels vulnerable. He's afraid of the answer.

Unfortunately, Macduff can't give him any answer that would be close to the right answer. "I don't know."

"Did it...mean anything to you?"

"What do you want my answer to be?"

"I want it to be no. Because if it's no, then I can start to forget it ever happened and go back to the way it was with us before, and maybe then everything can be okay. But if the answer is yes-" He stops and swallows before continuing. "If the answer is yes, then I'll be ruined for anything else because I'd fool myself into thinking I can have you and you know we can never be with each other the way everyone else wants me to be with a wife but I don't want anyone other than you.” Malcolm’s voice breaks on the word ‘you’. “Everything was fine, but then you touched me, and looked at me like I was something important, and now I can never be whole again. Not without you. So please, tell me no, so I can accept that."

At some point, a tear had slipped down Malcolm's cheek. Macduff brushes it away, and Malcolm pulls back as if he's been burned. "Don't."

Macduff can’t lie to him and say it had meant nothing. Not when he'd relived it on nights he couldn't sleep. Not when he woke wishing Malcolm was beside him. Not when Malcolm stole his breath when he wasn't there. Instead, he asks: "Did it mean anything to you?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The way Malcolm says it is so full of fear and self hatred that Macduff winces.

Neither of them say anything for a while. They stand apart. Macduff can’t take his eyes off of Malcolm; Malcolm looks everywhere but at him.

"I think you should go," says Malcolm eventually. Macduff can’t find the strength to argue, so he slips out of the hall and once he’s out of sight, he runs.

-

If Macduff cries once he gets back to Fife, that’s between himself and Heaven.

-

One summer, when they were much, much younger men, they'd gone down to the river. Just the two of them. They spent hours idly flicking water at each other, or lying beside each other on the grass. It had been peaceful, even though Macduff had felt like Malcolm was holding his breath the whole time.

Eventually, the sun began to lose it's hold on the sky, and they got up and went to retire their clothes. Macduff reached them first and, for reasons he couldn't place then but can definitely place now, grabbed Malcolm's shirt and held it out of reach.

"You'll have to fight me for it," he'd said before sprinting away. Malcolm had chased after him and tackled him. Macduff felt his arms around his waist, and then he was lying flat on his back, the air knocked out of him. Malcolm held him down, legs straddling Macduff's waist.

But Macduff has always been and still is stronger than Malcolm, so it was easy to flip him over and pin him down by the wrists. His knees dug into Malcolm's sides slightly.

"Do I win?" He asked.

Malcolm smiled. "You win."

Both of them were out of breath. Neither moved. There was something hanging in the space where their breath mingled, something shimmering and fragile. Macduff couldn't stop himself from looking at Malcolm's too-warm eyes, which were filled with something he'd seen before, but not like this. Never like this.

And then someone called their names, telling them to come back in, and the spell was broken. Macduff felt like he'd seen something he shouldn't have.

-

The days that follow are bad. Macduff goes through the motions of running an earldom, trance-like and distant. When his time isn’t filled with work, he doesn’t leave his chambers. He’s managed to narrow his world down to advisors and the ceiling and the trees he can see out of his window, and it’s pathetic, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care.

In a way, it reminds him of how he was right after Malcolm’s coronation, when he had to go back to Fife and see the empty rooms that were once full of life and people. Except perhaps this is worse than that because it’s one thing having someone you love removed completely and involuntarily from your life, and a completely different thing having someone you love and who maybe loves you back remove themself. At least with death, you don’t have to see them and look at their face and hear their voice and know that they won’t let any of that be yours.

He doesn’t understand. If Malcolm wants to be with him, then why won’t he? The question gets answered automatically in his head - he’s scared. It’s not unexpected, but it doesn’t feel fair to Macduff. Malcolm might be afraid of what people will think, but there are many people in Scotland like him. Most people know about Ross and Angus, or Caithness and Menteith, and so far nobody has minded. They’ve never acknowledged it outright, but they also haven’t intruded.

But there’s a small part of him that whispers that maybe it isn’t other people that Malcolm is afraid of. Maybe he’s afraid of doing what he wants. A prince is raised on everyone else’s expectations, and there’s safety in fulfilling them.

Or maybe, Macduff thinks as he tries to fall asleep, maybe he’s afraid of Macduff leaving him if he lets him in. If he truly sees him.

God knows Macduff is terrified of Malcolm doing just that.

-

It must be bad, because a week after they talk, Donalbain shows up at Fife.

“Can I come in?” he asks, standing in the doorway of the room.

“You’re already inside,” replies Macduff.

“Fair play,” he says, and steps over the threshold.

It’s only now that Macduff realises how much of a mess he looks. He was aware of it, vaguely, but now the extent of it can be read on Donalbain’s face. It’s pitying in a way that makes Macduff want to throw up, or punch Donalbain and break his nose again.

Everyone’s trying to show Macduff kindness except the only person he wants to be kind to him. He’s tired of it.

“Why are you here?” Macduff asks, if only to break the silence.

“Oh! Um.” Donalbain blinks. “Primarily to apologise on Malcolm’s behalf, since he won’t do it himself. He was out of line. I’m sure he’d have an excuse if he were here, but he’s not, so I’m telling you that he does feel bad.”

“Then why did he - why?”

“I’m fairly sure you already know the answer to that, but if you want the official reason, it’s ‘for the good of the kingdom’.” Macduff opened his mouth to reply but Donalbain held up a hand to silence him. “I know, I know. He’s always like this.”

“Not always,” Macduff says immediately, thinking of every late night and every shared joke and every time it felt like they were both happy.

Donalbain doesn’t say anything. He looks at him with an expression Macduff can’t put a name to - he can’t read Donalbain as well as he can read his brother - and nods. “If you say so.”

Macduff feels mildly uncomfortable. “Is that it?”

“Well, I was also going to see if you were okay, but I feel like that’s unnecessary.”

Macduff self-consciously runs a hand through his hair in an effort to fix it.

Donalbain’s about to leave, but Macduff puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“I have to ask,” he says. “Is Malcolm okay?”

Donalbain laughs, but it’s devoid of any mirth. “I would have thought that was unnecessary as well.” At Macduff’s blank expression, he sighs and pulls himself free.

Right before he closes the door, Donalbain shakes his head. “No. Why would he be?”

And then he leaves.

It’s only much, much later that Macduff realises how far Fife is to travel, but he decides to not overthink it.

-

Malcolm, Malcolm, it’s always Malcolm. The man never leaves Macduff’s head. Malcolm telling him to leave, Malcolm on the verge of crying, Malcolm kissing him. He’s sick of always, always thinking about Malcolm.

In a way, Macduff is starting to hate him. But in every other way, he could never.

-

Macduff is awoken by the sound of the storm first. It hammers on the walls of the castle and drags itself down into the village, snapping trees and flooding paths in its wake. There's a boom in the distance and a flash of blinding light, and then Macduff is awake.

He lies there, wishing for sleep. The cold has snuck in through his windows. It caresses his face with icy fingers, pulls frost through his hair, shocks his throat into closing and denying any air. Macduff closes his eyes and shivers. There's little else he can do. Gradually, he drifts back into a fitful sleep.

He is next awoken by the sound of someone knocking on the door of his chamber. Macduff considers pretending not to have heard, but his body betrays him and he drags himself out from where his body made the air warm into the harsh and breathless air. After all, it must be important, he reasons. Nobody else is up.

"Yes?" He asks, voice still hoarse from sleep.

The servant at the door fidgets, partially out of nervousness and partially for warmth. "M-my lord," he stammers, "the king is here. He asked for you."

Macduff sighs. "At this hour?"

"He said you'll see him."

And he's right. Even when separated, Malcolm knows Macduff inside out, knows he'll see him even in the middle of the storm before the sun dares to be up.

He's led down the passageway into a room he seldom goes into. It's small, and dimly lit by a dozen almost useless candles. In the middle of it all stands Malcolm, soaked to the skin and shivering and beautiful.

Macduff steps inside and the servant leaves them. He shuts the door and they both let the sound hang in the air.

"I'm sorry for waking you," says Malcolm, at the same time Macduff says: "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you," he replies, looking down at the floor.

"In the middle of this?" Macduff gestures vaguely to the noise outside. As if on cue, thunder falls near the outer walls of Fife.

"I couldn't sleep." It's a weak excuse, but they both know Macduff will accept it.

There are a lot of things Macduff wants to say, but he's tired, so he chooses something innocuous. "Your brother was just here a few days ago."

"I know. I asked him to come."

"That's a long way."

Malcolm shakes his head to reassure him. "No, we had some business in Aberdour, so it wasn't too far."

Macduff nods, mostly to himself. Then he remembers the storm and the time of night and - "You rode here from Aberdour? In the rain?"

Malcolm makes a noise that confirms it.

"Is your horse okay?" The weather would have made the journey take almost an hour, and that can't have been kind to Malcolm's mare.

"She's seen worse. She's tough."

Macduff allows himself a small laugh at that. "That she is."

They both stare at each other. Malcolm has dripped water into the floor, but Macduff can't bring himself to mind, because the rain reflects the candlelight in a way that makes Malcolm seem almost ethereal. He holds his gaze, unrelenting and brave as he can be.

"I was wrong," Malcolm says eventually.

"I know. I've already heard that from Donalbain."

Malcolm makes a face. It looks slightly pained. "There’s more to it. And I realised after he came back that I wanted you to hear it from me."

"So here you are."

"So here I am."

Macduff smiles despite himself.

"This month, especially the last few days, have been unbearable," says Malcolm. He hasn't stopped looking into Macduff's eyes. "I know you already said it, but I do miss you. I've gotten so used to you being a part of my life that I can't not have you in it."

At this, he takes a step forward. His voice sounds the way it did after the battle. It seems so long ago now, thinks Macduff, even though he relives it more days than not.

"So, and I think we both know this," he continues. "I'm in love with you. And I think you're in love with me too?"

Macduff nods, not trusting himself to speak. Malcolm smiles, softly, and it's the most wonderful thing in the world at that moment. Macduff has missed that smile more than anything.

"I think... if everyone already knows -" Macduff can tell that those words are still a struggle to get through "- then there's not much stopping us."

"Why the sudden boldness?"

"I had a lot of time to think about it when you weren't around, and I came to the conclusion that losing you would be worse than anything anyone could think about me. I've spent my whole life caring too much about what other people want, when all I want is right here."

He takes both of Macduff's hands gently in his own. "What I mean to say is that I'm yours, if you'll have me."

Malcolm looks up at Macduff, face entirely open and hopeful. He looks so unafraid. Even so, Macduff can see that there's worry behind Malcolm's eyes that he'll say no.

He won't. Macduff would never say no to him, not in a thousand lifetimes.

"This is what you want?" He asks softly.

"This is what I want," says Malcolm.

That's all the invitation Macduff needs. He lets go of Malcolm's hands and cups his jaw, drawing him in. Carefully, as if Malcolm is made of glass and gossamer, he kisses him. Malcolm kisses back, slowly at first, then quicker and deeper, until they're both entangled with each other. If anyone were to walk into the room, it would be difficult to tell where the Earl of Fife ends and the king begins.

For the first time in weeks, Macduff feels truly happy.

-

The storm stops by sunrise. That morning, it's Malcolm's turn to wake up in a bed that's not his own.

Macduff is already half awake. The bed is warm. His arms are wrapped around Malcolm's waist, and if it were possible he would never let go.

"Good morning," he whispers sleepily into his lover's hair.

"Good morning," Malcolm replies, eyes still closed. He sounds content.

That's all Macduff could ever want.